I will be the rock (to your hard place)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Well, that settled things. They were officially stuck here.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** Entry for the USS Caryl's '25 Days of Caryl Challenge' – Day 22 (Sep 20) Word/Phrase prompt challenge: one of their signature lines. I wanted to explore how a certain signature line came into being.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter between seasons 2-3 when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime before the season three premiere. *Contains: angst, UST, adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, frottage, emotional baggage, adult babies dealing with their feelings, vague season three spoilers.

**I will be the rock (to your hard place)**

_**Chapter One**_

They ended up staying at the house for over a week. The walkers were sparse and easily dealt with in the growing cold. The storm had taken the wind out of Rick's sails and everyone seemed pretty content to sit back and wait it out. And why not? The place they'd found had not one, but _two_ fire places – one on each floor - and a reasonably stocked pantry. There was enough space on the main floor that they could make use of the other rooms without giving up any security, and in comfort to boot.

No one was talking about how it felt too good to be true. No one wanted to jinx it.

Either way, staying put turned out to be a wise decision, because they only had a few days to organize their things and squeeze in a few supply runs before the mother of all storms blew in.

* * *

It wasn't just any storm, either.

It was the kind that blacks out the sky and makes you forget what the sun feels like on your skin. The kind that howls and sparks one moment, only to play coy and quiet the next, daring you to venture outside as mother nature tests her ability to lure the hopeful out of their dens.

To saddle them with a quick death rather than a slow race to the finish line.

Where you die of exposure long before the walkers can get you.

They'd seen it once or twice after the cold snap. People – survivors – huddled up in cars and quick shelters in some forest clearing. Smearing frost across the windows as they squirmed in their seats, pressing up against the dash. The blows softened by warm mittens and cloth-wrapped layers that'd ended up doing little good against the brunt of the winter cold.

There had been no bites.

They didn't need them.

Mother Nature had seen to that.

* * *

Two days later, dawn found her whispering – barefoot and pale – across the kitchen tile. The house was perfect, still - _sleeping_ as she tip-toed over to the sliding glass door. She kept one hand on her holster as she twitched back the blinds, peering out into the early morning gloom before drawing them back completely.

She shivered, watching the sky through the kitchen window as the clouds roiled, shrouding the sky in a blanket of charcoal grey. She thought about the fire _crick-crackling_ in the hearth in the living room as she hugged herself, rubbing at her arms to chase away a sudden chill.

The first flakes to fall were fluffy, wet and unapologetic.

She sighed, shaking her head as she tucked her chin deeper into the folds of her sweater.

_Well, that settled things. _

_They were officially stuck here._

She looked around her, suddenly at a loss as the idea of free-time stretched out in front of her for the first time in months. No, longer than months, years maybe. Even when Sophia had been in school, she'd never let herself be idle. She'd never allowed herself much time to think – to sit down and actually dwell on the horror story that'd made a mockery of her happy ending. She'd kept herself busy, even when Ed had decided they were watching TV, she'd have a pile of darning in her lap, the check book and next week's grocery list peeking out of the household folder.

She gummed at the inside of her cheek, long nails _tip-tapping _across the metal frame of the sliding-glass, the idea still making subtle waves across her tired mind as a dizzying rush of possibility churned through the backwash. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled – alive with mental static – as the flakes started to come down harder. Blanketing the ground and piling high on the fence posts of the sprawling backyard.

_Baby steps, _she reminded herself. _Baby steps._

Still, it begged the question.

_Now what?_

* * *

The first day she forced herself to sleep in. Soaking in the early morning sounds as the others gradually began to stir. But when Lori pulled herself up, grunting lightly as her sore back made itself known, she kept her eyes closed. Content to fake it as Daryl's tired, steady breathing from the bed roll beside her lulled in her into that weightless place – the one that existed somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

She hadn't felt him sleep this deep in months.

And, not for the first time since they'd stumbled on this place, she forced herself to wonder if perhaps it wasn't just _her_ that needed the lie in.

* * *

The second day, she read the paperback Carl had found behind the downstairs toilet and then let him beat her at Chess. She played chicken with Daryl in the hallway, sliding seamlessly in and out of each other's orbit. Spooking each other with the weight of the feelings - the _commitment _\- that lurked unsaid between them.

It felt like an engine stall.

_An unnatural pause._

Something had changed between them since the farm.

She just couldn't put a finger on what.

* * *

She stayed awake that night, watching the shadows chase each other across the ceiling. Listening to the others sleep, pretend to sleep, watching Hershel spit-shine his wedding ring from the armchair one of them had set in front of the fire.

She considered her situation as the fire banked itself, glowing red with ember as Daryl sighed, rolling free of his mess of blankets and getting to his feet. She listened to the _click-click-pop _as he stretched, savoring the sound as he shifted, looking around at the huddled shapes that dotted the span of the living room. She could almost hear him counting it out, making sure. Like the lead male in a wolf pack, he ensured everyone was accounted for before he ghosted out the side door, already fumbling with the button on his jeans as he made tracks to the nearest bathroom.

She wondered what he'd been thinking, laying there beside her, hyper aware of every shift, every hitch in each other's breathing, tongues pressing down on all the words they weren't saying. The ones that got harder and harder not to blurt out as the days trickled past and the weight of everything left unsaid settled across her shoulders like the snow and wind that seemed to have wreathed around them for the long haul.

She forced down the urge to shift restlessly as the wind howled in the eaves.

She didn't know what he wanted to hear.

_Did he want her to lie?_

_To say nothing?_

Regardless of what it was, the next act would be hers. That much she was sure of.

He'd never be the one to break the ice. To make the first move.

The dichotomy was interesting. Ed had always used volume and his fists to get what he wanted. He'd never shied away from it. He'd never deferred, especially not for her sake. She blinked, watching through slitted eyes as the man slunk back into the room, hands awkward and empty as he crossed over to the chair and gave Hershel a nod.

She decided it was progress when he muted the flinch, the action more reflexive than anything as the muscles in his shoulders twitched, shuddering as Hershel rested his hand on a shoulder, squeezing lightly as he handed over the night's watch without comment. Allowing the silence speak for them.

* * *

She drifted off no less than five minutes after he settled down in the chair by the fire, all hunched shoulders and surly grace, spearing the coals with a poker as her eyes started to droop.

He had a knack for that, she supposed, at making her feel safe.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – We should be looking at two more chapters and this baby will be complete.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1**: Entry for the USS Caryl's '25 Days of Caryl Challenge' – Day 22 (Sep 20) Word/Phrase prompt challenge: one of their signature lines. I wanted to explore how a certain signature line came into being.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter between season 2-3 when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime before the season three premier where they finally found the prison. *Contains: angst, UST, adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, frottage, emotional baggage, adult babies dealing with their feelings, vague season three spoilers,

**I will be the rock (to your hard place)**

_**Chapter Two**_

On the third day she broke.

Honestly figuring that anything was better than quietly going to stir-crazy, she decided to tackle clearing out the kitchen. She attacked the muddy hardwood with a broom, wreaking more vengeance than she remembered doing to any walker as she took every clod of dirt and dust bunny as a personal affront.

She felt cooped up – constrained - finding herself itching to crack open a window just to feel the air on her skin. She yanked on the latch above the kitchen sink, wrestling with rusty hinges and warped metal as the force of each movement sent tremors up her arm.

The bitter cold would be worth it - _maybe_.

A small freedom to conceal the truth about their gilded cage.

Still, she had a sinking feeling that the sensation would never quite go away.

Not until the storm had lessened, anyway.

Or maybe never.

Maybe not until her and Daryl had-

She shook her head, abandoning the latch in favor of clambering onto the sink. A Windex-soaked sponge in hand, she put all her energy into scrubbing a hole through the muck, dust and frost that had accumulated on the window over the past year - wanting a better look at the backyard and the overgrown orchard that existed beyond.

She didn't realize he was behind her until her boot caught on the rim of the sink and sent her pitching back into his arms. It was quick, too quick. Because before she had a chance to register the fall, he was already there, catching her by the elbows as her knees gave out, wobbly and slipping against the soapy stainless steel.

It sent her reeling, her full weight falling back into his arms and Daryl was - _god _– he wasalready there, ready, open, _warm_.

She quivered as he held her close, all calloused tips and dirt-crusted clothes - musk and muscles she could depend upon. She swallowed a surprised squeak in favor of drinking it in. Teeth catching on her lower lip as his exhale – unsteady and honest - sparked across her skin.

She hadn't even heard him come in. How long had he been watching? How long-

He held her like that, close against his chest, cradled like a newborn for a smattering of beats before he let her go, forcing her to slide down the entire length of him, from chest to thigh until her feet met the ground. And she felt it, every bump, every groove, curve, every hard line of muscle on her way down.

She nearly hiccupped as the hot press of his groin dragged – rubbing sinuously from the small of her back to the curve of her ass. Heavy, turgid and twitching as the flakes swirled, caught in a wind gust as the flurry filtered across the small hole she'd made in the dust and grit.

Squashing the impulse to grind back took nearly everything she had.

Her feet hit the ground like an afterthought, unimportant and largely ignored as they stood, back to chest, breathing each other's air – winded and unsteady. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this way, nerves mis-firing, hairs prickling, anticipation and possibility stretching out in front of them like a banquet to a starving man.

_She felt_ _alive._

_Powerful._

_Shy._

The palms wrapped around her elbows lingered just a beat too long, enough for her to notice when he realized it. Her cheeks heated as he ducked away, she didn't bother to hide the wobble as she adjusted her stance. Trying to ignore the way every stray molecule of her was reaching – yearning for the warm press of his chest against hers - willing to do anything if he'd just stay.

Instead, he flinched away, curling up a bit, hips angled away from her in that universal way all grown women could recognize.

"Gotta be more careful," he finally grunted, simmering in ill-timed indignance as he shuffled towards the door. Desperate to save face and make sure she didn't know about it as he huffed and dug his heels in. "Might not be here the next time."

It took a while to get her breathing back under control. But when she finally had a handle on herself, she couldn't help but look back at that empty door and shake her head – rueful and musing as the sound of the others playing a board game in the den filtered through the quiet.

Somehow she highly doubted that.

* * *

The next two days were torturous.

They seemed to run into each other constantly.

It felt like gravity. An unstoppable orbit. An object once in motion staying in motion until-

She could feel it, the uncertainty. It was stretched out between them like a leather cord only a few seconds shy of snapping. Neither of them knew how or why or even if they should proceed. And perhaps _that _was what was causing the tension. Each of them was waiting for the other to take the lead and as a result, neither one of them were moving.

They were on the cusp of something; that much was clear.

_But what?_

Sink or swim, it was getting to the point that one way or another, she _had _to know.

And worse? The weather wasn't showing any sign of letting up.

She shook her eyes, digging herself further in the fluffy cashmere throw she'd liberated from the hall closet.

She wondered if this was karma.

Or worse, God's way of getting even.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – One or two more chapters and this puppy will be complete.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** Entry for the USS Caryl's '25 Days of Caryl Challenge' – Day 22 (Sep 20) Word/Phrase prompt challenge: one of their signature lines. I wanted to explore how a certain signature line came into being.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter between season 2-3 when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime before the season three premier where they finally found the prison. *Contains: angst, UST, adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, frottage, emotional baggage, adult babies dealing with their feelings, vague season three spoilers.

**I will be the rock (to your hard place)**

_**Chapter Three**_

By the fourth day, stir-crazy was just another word that'd lost its meaning, overwhelmed by the truly ridiculous drift of snow that'd started piling up against the doors and windows. Rick, Daryl and T-Dog had long since lost their patience, attacking the dune-like drifts with a type of aggression that wouldn't be thought twice of at a football game or one of those awful wrestling shows Ed had insisted on following.

She was _beyond_ stir-crazy. She was desperate. Desperate enough to remember how Daryl had hung around when Patricia had started baking that peach cobbler they'd had up at the farm. Desperate enough to throw on a couple sweaters, rain boots and the warm winter jacket she'd found in the closet downstairs. Desperate enough to shoulder her pack, snag the keys by the door labeled: _"backyard cellar" _and see what she could scrounge up.

Her first step sunk her boot-deep in the drifts, the flakes flirting with the tops – navy blue with a worn white ribbon – as she turned, throwing her shoulder into it as she forced the sliding door closed behind her.

She shivered, squinting into the blowing snow, feet already tingling.

_She'd have to make this quick._

The backyard cellar turned out to be more of a root cellar built up against the east side of the house. It took a moment, due to fumbling fingers and a thick ice-cold chain – testing the give as she wriggled the key from side to side, paranoid she'd snap it if she turned it too hard. Her lashes were crusted with blowing snow by the time the lock clicked open.

She puttered around the edge for a long moment, gun up, just in case, while her free hand felt around the ledge, searching for-_aha!_

Her fingers were halfway to pins and needles as she unknotted the rope that fastened around the folding ladder – compact and tucked under the front edge - before letting it drop into the darkness.

The sound that elicited when she reached up and half-closed one of the doors – folding back with an offensive scream of rusting metal and dusty hinges – was only partially swallowed by the storm. But she barely batted an eye, too busy reveling in the way it cut off at least part of the vicious wind.

Cold or not she reached into her pack and took out her flashlight. She shined it into the far corner, just to make sure there was nothing down there before she holstered her gun, set her flashlight between her teeth and eased herself down towards the first step.

Her fingers clenched and unclenched around the plastic-lined sides. Flirting with her fear of heights as she forced herself to go one step at a time_. _She made the mistake of looking down, watching a sprinkling of powder go freefalling into the dark underneath her.

She bit her lip.

_She could do this._

_Just six steps. _

_Six steps up. Six steps down. That was it._

_Easy._

She hated folding ladders. She always felt like she was five seconds away from falling. And this one was no exception, forcing her to sway – off balance and unsteady - as she climbed down awkwardly. But if there was one thing giving her wings, it was the weight of the blackness settling in at her back. Exposed to the dark of the root cellar as the instinctual fear of the unknown had her skipping the second last step and putting boot to ground.

She told herself the Glock in her hand was only shaking because of the cold.

* * *

The beam of her flashlight reflected off rows upon rows of dusty glass jars. Lighting up the contents as she eased her way between cobwebs and questionable looking piles of junk that'd been stacked against the far wall – bits of metal, cloth and nail-studded hardwood - as she decided to give the place a quick once-over.

She didn't want to be in here any longer than she had to, but she'd picked up more than just how to handle a gun over the past few months. There had been more than a few hard lessons since the farm. The first of which was the importance of clearing a room.

Most of the far rack was a mess of cloudy jars and rusted-through lids. She stood up on her tip-toes to get a look, only to veer away last minute when the smell hit her. The stuff inside was shriveled and rotten beyond recognition. Like it'd gone bad long before the virus, before the media started using words like: "containment" and "city-wide quarantine."

She gave the entire shelf a wide berth, nose twitching as the scent of mold and damp dust mingled with the dust motes above her head.

The air was old.

_Stale._

She breezed down the aisles one at a time, confidence growing.

_She had this. _

Her fingers trailed across the dusty labels, feeling the crick-crackle of brittle paper flaking off at her touch as she passed. _Pumpkin pie filling, cranberry cordial, apricot jam, peach slices-yes!_

The smile that spread across her lips seemed at odds with her chattering teeth but she grinned regardless. Sweeping a good three or four jars into her pack before zipping it back up again.

She had what she wanted. Time to get back inside where it was warm.

* * *

She was only a couple of feet away from the ladder when a walker – _no _– two fell right through the open door and splattered across the cheap laminate floor.

She startled backwards, tripping, jars _clink-clinking _in her pack as her shot went wide. Shattering an empty jar on the opposite side of the cellar as the second walker picked itself up, a mess of bone shards and the rasp of broken ivory, joining the first as they backed her down the aisle.

Her next shot caught the leader in the neck, the impact causing it – a man, stained wife-beater and filthy tan slacks – to reel back into the other, slowing them down enough that her third shot caught it square in the left eye socket. Crumpling to the ground in a heap of shabby fabric and rotten air.

Her back hit the wall the same moment the second walker suddenly lurched forward, using some sort of momentum as it stumbled over the fallen body – pinging right then left against the narrow shelves until she could smell-

She squeezed down on the trigger, shoulder blades up like hackles as Daryl's voice rang out somewhere above her, heavy footfalls that shook dirt loose from the ceiling as the echoes of each shot aired out into the muffled still.

_Once._

_Twice._

_Again._

And as the horrible thing fell at her feet – all flopping hair and a torn nightdress – she couldn't help but wonder if they would have considered it a mercy.

* * *

The scrape of snow covered gravel across an all too familiar tread had her pushing away from the wall, stepping delicately over the mess of sprawled bodies until Daryl appeared – crossbow up – ringed in a perfect circle of snow-speckled moonlight.

"Ya'll right?" he called, raspy and chattering through the end of his usual drawl as he let the point of his bow tip skyward.

"Fine. Just fine," she hurried, tightening the straps of her pack with nervous fingers before stowing her Glock safely in the holster. "Got startled, is all," she explained, embarrassment creeping in as he squinted down at the scene.

He looked like a hawk peering down, cocky and intelligent, from a forest perch. Eying her up as she tried to put at least a measure of nonchalance into her step as she lingered, putting jars of jam and canned sweet-mix that she really didn't need into her pack, just to prove a point.

She could almost smell the grease in the gears as thoughts and impressions churned in the back of his mind. She tried not to feel bitter about it when she considered how this must look. She'd worked hard for the progress she'd gained over the past few months. Every single inch of it had been hard won and in a moment, it seemed like she'd landed right back at square one.

She'd left that door open on purpose. It had been a conscious decision, but ultimately, her deeply ingrained claustrophobia had had the last word. She shouldn't be ashamed of it. In a lot of ways it made sense not to block off her own escape route. But in hindsight, with Daryl's keen eyes taking in every detail, she couldn't help but feel remarkably foolish.

"What 'ya doin' down here anyway?" he asked, proving her right not a moment later as he paced around the lip, uneasy. "We didn't clear down there."

"I did," she said firmly, maybe a bit too firmly if the way his spine stiffened was any indication.

He kicked at the lip, sending a skiff of snow speckling downwards, getting caught in the cross breeze as it whirled around her in little eddies. It was almost as if the two of them were caught in a two-tiered snow globe – freshly shaken – as some bright faced child pressed their face close to the glass.

"Shouldn't be out here alone," he grunted, looking behind him furtively before he sank down on his haunches and crooked a finger. "Com'on, Hershel's got some of those cocktail wieners fryin'."

The smile was small, but she let him see it anyway, tipping her head back as the flakes melted on her lashes.

"Mmm, gourmet cooking," she sassed, heading towards the ladder. "Better get our share before it's all gone."

She had her foot on the bottom rung when a skeletal hand lurched through the gap and hooked her by the ankle.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – You guys have no idea how hard I tried to wrap this up in three chapters, like, argh. Suffice it to say, it didn't work. So, expect one more chapter and this story will be at a close.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** Entry for the USS Caryl's '25 Days of Caryl Challenge' – Day 22 (Sep 20) Word/Phrase prompt challenge: one of their signature lines. I wanted to explore how a certain signature line came into being.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter between season 2-3 when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime before the season three premier where they finally found the prison. *Contains: angst, UST, adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, frottage, emotional baggage, adult babies dealing with their feelings, vague season three spoilers, this chapter could contain some very mild dub-con as consent was not implicitly stated.

**I will be the rock (to your hard place)**

_**Chapter Four**_

She fell back, one hand flailing out for balance, the other reaching for her gun. But even then, she had a picture perfect view as he leapt down, two footed and lithe, making a heavy sound as he hit the ground and rolled, eyes flashing dark as a passing cloud guttered the moonlight.

The sound of her name, reverberating through the still was the last thing she heard before her head connected with the side of a shelf and her vision grayed out at the edges.

* * *

If she'd been given time to think on it, to organize her thoughts into neat little rows, color coordinated and artfully straight, she might have been able to say that she'd seen it coming.

And really, why not? It all fit together, jig-saw perfect when you connected all the dots, the little moments that'd spanned out since the farm - the quarry - since the loud roar of an engine as the Dixon brothers crested the final hill – bloody, capable and low on gas.

There'd been something about the way his voice had echoed, heavy on the inflection as the walker – skeletal and missing its lower half - pulled itself up by her boot, teeth gnashing. It was as close to panicked as she'd ever seen him – ever _heard _him – in all the months she'd known him.

Besides that, _this _whatever _this _was, had been all over the way he'd made that fall. There'd been no hesitation – none – only the smooth glide of straining muscles and the harsh sound of his boots hitting the crappy wood floor.

It seemed like something staged, impossible and commoditized as drifts of snow rained down after him. Dark hair slicked back at the temples as he tossed his bow to the side and lunged.

It was hard to process.

Hard to process because it was for her.

_Her._

* * *

What she _hadn't_ been expecting – as the torn-up thing gurgled through its death throes, Daryl's knife stuck deep in its skull - was the anger and rage burning in the back of his eyes as he rounded on her, hackles up and snarling.

* * *

He paced, spitting mad and wordless. Shoulder's hunched and sloped low like he was readying himself for something they'd both regret. It reminded her so much of the man he'd been back in the quarry camp, the one who'd followed so closely in his brother's footsteps, that the subtle dissonance made her chest ache.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" he growled, getting up in her face, close enough that she could smell the iron tang of old blood and wet leather. "If it'd gotten you I would've-"

"You would've what?" she echoed, shifting in place but determined to hold her ground. Tired and genuinely curious as tears rose unbidden in the corners of her eyes. Whether they were due to the near miss, the tone of his voice, or the wounded look on his face, she couldn't tell.

The stunned silence was anti-climactic at best. Like she'd chosen the perfect words right off the bat, forcing him to either hold his peace or face some hard truths as his jaw worked, child-like and angry.

Her Glock hung limp in her palm, impotent and chill with the dropping temperature, as they let the silence own them. She didn't know where she stood with him anymore. And maybe he didn't either, but at this point, she was just petty enough to put him on the spot and_ hell_ with the consequences.

His fingers twitched, an off-centre stroke of the rag in his side pocket as he eyed her down. He was waiting for an out, she realized. A merciful end to a discussion he found himself ill-equipped for. He was waiting for her to do what she always did, to let him off, smooth things over. To assure him that it didn't matter. And that _yes _perhaps this entire thing had been utterly stupid and _no _she wouldn't scare him like this ever again.

Only this time she refused to give him the satisfaction of caving first.

* * *

A fine mist of ivory-white filtered through the air above their heads, individual snowflakes showcased in all their glory, by the smallest sliver of moonlight. It added layers to the moment as it began to catch in their hair, the dips in their shoulder blades - kissing exposed cheeks as spots of color rose high and proud across them.

It felt like a pivotal moment.

Like something they'd been working up to since god knows when - the farm, maybe.

Her tongue traced across her lower lip, instinctive and unconscious right up until the moment where it wasn't. Thrilling her in a way she couldn't put a name to when his eyes followed it.

She watched him through the fan of her lashes, every nerve ending humming with anticipation as she considered the very real possibility that at any moment one of them would broach the remaining space and-

The tension was broken by a darting shape.

It was so unexpected that it startled a laugh out of her, eyes crinkling at the corners as Daryl whirled, knife up. Alert and ready for anything only to deflate like a lead balloon at the tentative little _meowrrr_ that rose up just behind a patch of moonlight.

_A cat. _

_It was just a silly cat._

She crouched down, cooing into the dark, clicking her tongue and wriggling her fingers until the cat – black as pitch with a worn red collar – crept out of the black, the possibility for a bit of love too enticing to ignore as Daryl snorted, shining his flashlight into the far corner.

"Must have a den somewhere close," he commented, squinting. "Probably burrowed down in here for warmth."

"I wonder if she used to live around here? Hard to believe she made it this long on her own," she hummed, petting the bedraggled fur and combing out the brambles, smiling as the tiny thing purred and head-butted against her, soaking it in. "Or he," she amended, trying to get a closer look at the worn tags as the cat flopped on its belly, purring up a storm.

But he just shook his head. "Cats are hunters, were never really meant to be pets," he returned, blunt as anything as the cat stretched out, trying to snaggle one of his boot laces with its claws. "They trick you into taking care of 'em, changing their shit litter and whatever, but when the chips are down they can get on just fine by themselves."

"Still, god knows how it managed to last down here, what with ol' legless crawlin' around," Daryl added, kicking at the skeletal mess that was the sole cause of the ache in her back and the throbbing headache still making itself known in the back of her skull.

"Nine lives, remember?" she murmured, the words coming out fond and easy as the dirty thing meowed, arching up for head scratches. Cleaning the blood off her thumb with a rough tongue.

"We could all use some of those these days, don't you think?" she added, flashing him a small smile as he glanced down, safe behind the relative cover of his dripping fringe.

"Who says you don't?" he replied, the tentative way he put each word to voice lending weight to the silence as she looked up, watching him watch her as the cat's quiet purrs rumbled out unmarked for the first time since they'd begun the conversation.

"Hell, by all counts you _do_. 'Ya just used up one of the nine right here," he rasped, flinging a hand out as if to encompass the bodies and everything that'd happened here.

She opened her mouth to say something – a gentle deferral or perhaps even a hedging untruth - only to abandon it before the words stood half a chance of flying. It didn't seem fair or even right, not when you looked around and tried to make peace with the fact that you were one of the lucky ones – one of the survivors. But maybe Daryl was right. For them to have survived as long as they had, maybe all of them were sitting pretty on a few extra.

She swallowed hard, smiling, vision going watery around the edges as he looked down at her in that way he does, that hesitant half-smile that had started to make tracks across his face more often than not these days.

_And maybe that was why._

_The reason why people like them had been given a second chance._

_An opportunity to do things right the second time around._

"Nine lives, huh?" she whispered softly, dusting off her hands and getting to her feet, watching as the picky feline stretched and wound its way between both their legs before disappearing back the way it'd come - soft sable into midnight pitch.

"I think I like the sound of that."

* * *

She'd like to say things changed after that night.

And perhaps they did.

Perhaps it was more of a matter that they continued moving at that same glacial pace and neither of them had any idea where to go from here. Two wounded souls trying to remember how the whole song and dance worked after years in proverbial moth-balls. It would have been funny, expected even – like the build-up of some sassy romantic comedy – if they'd only been a few decades younger and a bit less emotionally damaged.

It had been a turning point, of that there was no mistake. She could feel it. What had happened down in that cellar had changed things. But it was like they'd gotten stuck doing an illegal U-turn on a busy free-way – stalling somewhere between point a and point b.

Or maybe she was just expecting too much too soon.

She closed her eyes, seeing the after-image of flames dance across her closed lids as she counted the spaces between the breaths. Surprised to realize that he was actually sleeping for once, rolled up tight in the bed roll beside her.

_They were both out of practise at this._

The wind howled, furling down the chimney. Haunting and low as it brought another gust of cool winter air whirling in from outside. Whistling along the eaves as Glenn and Maggie stirred from their pile of blankets in the far corner. What passed as privacy for the young and adventurous these days, she supposed.

She tried to remember what warmth felt like as the fire hissed and spat, flickering and dangerously low as the wind buffeted the flames with a ferocity that only made her quiver when she considered how miserable it must be outside.

_God, they could have been out there, even now. They wouldn't have made it. It'd been pure chance stumbling on this place. And they'd been even luckier so far to keep it. They'd been lucky about a lot of things here, herself included._

She shivered again, body wracking almost violently as she curled up all the tighter. She'd read somewhere that was supposed to help, something about raising her core temperature? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that she was positively _swimming_ in blankets but unable to get warm, caught in that miserable blankness that existed between sleep and wakefulness as ice started to build up along the sills, staining the glass with tendril masterpieces of temporary white.

It was right in the middle of it that Daryl stiffened, snorting himself awake as her teeth started chattering, _click-clacking_ despite her best efforts to muffle them.

The scent of seared pine set the stage as he looked over at her with sleepy eyes - all mussed up hair, slack and not quite awake. His poncho was hiked up around his shoulders as he shuddered through a yawn.

There were pillow creases around his temples as he blinked, sleep-stupid and warm. And in all honesty, she couldn't help but enjoy it. It was so rare to see him like this. To see the man that existed under the impenetrable stare and harsh silences. It felt intimate, intimate to see him so vulnerable. To know that he _had _to trust her – trust them – to slip down so deep.

She shuddered, unsure of what to do with the bolt of pleasure the thought produced. Refusing, at least for the moment, to consider the responsibility that came along with it as she tried to enjoy it for what she hoped it was. _Progress._

They watched each other through the gloom. And not for the first time, she wondered what was going on in there, the thoughts and inflections she wasn't privy to. He'd always spoken more with silence than he had with words, but that didn't mean she relished the idea of constantly flying blind when it came to him and his attitudes.

It was contrary to her nature, but sometimes she just wanted to shake him. To shock a reaction out of him. Something, _anything,_ as her frustration at their lack of progress got the better of her.

She'd spent a long time trying to find herself, perhaps just as long as Daryl as he slowly settled in, trying to find his niche – his place – as the world re-ordered itself around them.

And together, she believed they'd found it.

They were part of each other's equation now, just as much as they were part of the answer.

It was just the whole 'figuring it out' part that was giving them trouble.

But maybe that was the point.

Maybe they were both trying just a little too hard.

Forcing the change instead of letting it happen naturally.

She let her gaze fall, focusing on the tiny spit of space that existed between them as she considered it. Wondering in spite of herself when 'just living' had gotten so complicated.

* * *

But if Daryl was plagued by the same thoughts, he certainly didn't show it. In fact, without missing a beat, he rolled over, spooning up behind her - still not quite awake - as she paused mid-shiver, wordless and uncomprehending as his arm, heavy and warm, draped itself across her middle.

She blinked, heart racing. Hardly daring to breathe as he settled in to stay. Trying to make sense of how he'd just single-handedly erased every hurdle they'd been dancing around but probably wouldn't remember one bit of it come morning.

The irony concerning that alone was staggering.

She bit her lip when he moved against her, throbbing into the warm press of her skin with the kind of boldness that only a dead sleep and a long neglected libido could provide. Raw, unconscious and painfully honest.

In another life she might have been embarrassed, even offended. Shying away from the way his core ground itself into the small of her back, hot and hard against her. But not today. Today she said nothing. Too afraid to move lest he wake up completely and skitter off like a startled animal, taking with him all the hard won progress they'd made.

She told herself there was a compliment in there somewhere, another hard truth about there being no truer measure of ones feelings then observing what the brain does when left to its own devices. But honestly, all else considered, the fact was that it'd been a long time since she'd felt desired.

* * *

Her knowing smile was velvet draped over the growing strength of smelted steel - gentle and strong - as she watched the shadows chase themselves across the ceiling. Only this time the light seemed to reach all the way to the corners, reflecting stark hues of ember-red and crumbling charcoal, content to let the moment breathe as his breaths evened back down into sleep.

She hummed into the darkness as a contented sound rose up from deep in his throat. The sound somehow turning into a thin snore as he pressed close – firm and greedy along the curve of her back like even now, something in him_ hated_ the idea of her being exposed.

His exhales were soft on her nape and eventually she fell asleep like that. Lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body against hers. Comforted as that little voice inside her – the same one that had urged her to slip that grenade into her purse, that'd snapped at her, forcing her to put one foot in front of the other as the barn burned - told her they were going to be just fine.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.

"_Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."_ ― Josephine Hart.


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